


The Misfits

by lil_1337



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Violence, gang warefare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337/pseuds/lil_1337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gundam Wing meets the roaring 20s.  Written for Moments of Rapture cliches contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misfits

**Author's Note:**

> References include but are not limited to:
> 
>  
> 
> <http://www.chicagohs.org/history/capone/cpn1a.html>
> 
>  
> 
> <http://www.1920-30.com/>
> 
>  
> 
> <http://www.crimelibrary.com/gangsters_outlaws/mob_bosses/capone/index_1.html>
> 
>  
> 
> <http://www.mysterynet.com/vdaymassacre/>
> 
>  
> 
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Valentine>'s_Day_Massacre
> 
>  
> 
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_immigration_to_the_United_States>

The summer of 1925 I was ten years old. My father, Chang Wufei, was part of an elite group of men much like the Untouchables only without the celebrity status or legal weight. They were the misfits who were too skilled to just throw away, but would have given the face of Chicago police department a look that would clash with the squeaky clean image they were attempting to project. A first generation Chinese-American, an orphaned gutter rat, the son of a circus family who had abandoned him when they moved on, the disgraced heir of a wealthy banker, and a man who had passed through the foster care system into the sweatshops only to emerge on the other side the kind of person who would not hesitate to take a life to survive. They were the faces that made up the less picture perfect families in America, the ones no one wanted to see or acknowledge existed.

My father's family immigrated to San Francisco from China five years before he was born. His mother was in labor when they arrived and had to be carried off the ship because she insisted on giving birth to his older sister, my Aunt Meilan, on American soil. The fact that both of her children were citizens was one of the things my grandmother was most proud of. Once they got settled in their new country my grandparents started a grocery. Cliché I know, but they were extremely traditional and hardworking people who saw no shame in bringing their culture with them to their new home.

Violence against the Chinese immigrants was escalating at that time and most of the police looked the other way or blamed the victims. My father grew up watching this and learned early how to use his feet and fists to protect others. His father had studied martial arts growing up as was expected of the head of an important, though small and impoverished, clan. In return he taught his son not only about the value of knowledge and education, but also the ways of the life of a warrior. As a result honor, both personal and familial, were the corner stones of my father's life. Had he been willing to pretend to be Filipino, as so many others did, his life would have been much easier.

After finishing high school he passed the entrance exams to enter the University of Chicago and study law. At the university he studied hard and managed to graduate at the top of his class, an accomplishment that he was very proud of. His diploma hung on the wall in his den until my mother sold the house after his death. It has since been passed down to me and will be given to my oldest son when I die.

Once he had his law degree in hand and was a full fledged member of the bar he discovered that even with all his academic accolades no one would hire him to do anything other than manual labor. He took what menial jobs he could and scraped by, spending his time in the library and studying the new methods of evidence gathering. It was there he met my mother, the beautiful blonde haired daughter of privilege who represented everything he hated and felt oppressed by. She on the other hand found him exotic and challenging as well as stubborn and prideful.

Her father tried to break them up, but she wouldn't stand for it. In the end he conceded and used his connections to help my father get a job on the police force because he knew her threats to disappear were not idle ones. Sadly, even with the corruption and power brokering going on a senator didn't have enough influence to make miracles happen. As a result my father was able to find work as a police officer, which was as close to using his knowledge of the law as he would ever come.

I don't mean to make light of their struggles; they had plenty and my mother gave up a lot to be with my father. But that is a story for another time. Things were different back then than they are today. Women weren't allowed to make their own decisions and a man of color, any color, touching a white woman was risking his freedom and often his life. If that woman was rich and powerful it was almost guaranteed regardless of her feelings on the subject. Through the course of their marriage they remained discrete about their feelings for each other. It was only because of the respect my father held in our neighborhood along with his skills in martial arts that he survived the early days of their relationship.

Even with the senator's grudging support my father started at the bottom; the most poverty stricken parts of Chicago were his beat. He walked it with pride and made a name for himself by being completely unbiased in his enforcement of the law. It was there he met Uncle Duo. He was a jokester. Always on a lark about something and making the people around him laugh. Father claimed he was a very good police officer because he was skilled at putting people at ease. I just know he was fun to be around and could always be counted on to have sweets that he would share when my father and mother were pretending not to look.

Uncle Duo met Uncle Heero when they were in what passed for the academy in those days. Uncle Heero seemed very grim and scary until the first time I saw him let down his guard and smile. That made all the difference. Uncle Duo would tease Uncle Heero about giving up a chance at the Untouchables because he liked his current group of co workers better, but there was an undertone to his words that years and knowledge of people would help me to understand after I had passed through childhood. At the time I thought Uncle Heero must be a great friend to do that. After all, Eliot Ness and his team were the heroes of the time, bringing law to the mean streets of Chicago. My friends and I played Bootleggers and Untouchables for hours on end like my sons would some day play Cowboys and Indians. It was one of our favorite games and we spent full days working out elaborate scenarios that always resulted in shootouts with the Untouchables triumphing in the end. After all, a good number of us were cop's children and we knew that was how it was supposed to happen.

It wasn't until much later that I realized my uncles' relationship was not just that of best friends and roommates. In hindsight and through the eyes of a grown man who knows what love looks like I can see the hints, all the little things that as I child I either ignored or dismissed because it did not fit with what I knew of the world. They were discrete, but in those days they had to be. Even hinting that you might be interested in another man /that way/ would most likely end in a life threatening beating. At the very least you would be considered a social outcast with little to no chance of finding work. That was unless you were willing to work in one of the pansy clubs where it was not only allowed, but also encouraged.

This was long before the days of gay straight alliances in the schools and pride week parades. I have often wished that they had lived to see more of the changes that they fought for. If marriage had been legal in their lifetimes I have no doubt that my uncles would have been the first people in line. Growing up with them taught me many valuable lessons about love and tolerance, which I did my best to pass onto my children and grandchildren.

Uncle Quatre had attended the same prestigious schools as my mother and I suspect when he was forcibly ejected from his family she was the one who convinced him and his bodyguard, my Uncle Trowa, to join the police force. As the only son of the most powerful man in banking he had the world at his feet or would have if his father hadn't caught him with Uncle Trowa there instead. His refusal to fire his bodyguard, get married, and become an upstanding member of the community earned him disinheritance and the need for a change in careers. According to my father, Uncle Quatre had hated working in the bank and threw himself into his new job. Fortunately, he was a quick learner and was willing to take the hard knocks that came with earning the respect of the other officers. He might have led a privileged life, but he was no push over.

My father and my uncles shared the same patrol areas with some overlapping coverage. They started off each as an individual flatfoot walking his own beat, but by the time I was old enough to remember they had formed a single unit that worked the whole district. There was plenty of crime in Chicago at that time so while Ness and his boys got all the publicity there was still a lot of work to go around. They were good at it too; all of them. Despite a system that was corrupt almost beyond repair they never faltered in their duty. My father kept up on the newest techniques in gathering evidence and Uncle Trowa could go undercover anywhere without being recognized. Uncle Quatre and Uncle Duo had contacts at both ends of the social spectrum while Uncle Heero was well known in the less than legal enterprises that operated in town.

That summer of course I didn't know, nor would I have understood, the politics that were at work in the city. My world consisted of the other kids on our block, most of whom had hard working, law-abiding parents. Our fathers went to work every day and our mothers kept house, taking care of the family. I was blissfully unaware that there was a struggle going on for control of Chicago, one that Al Capone with his money and threats was winning. I heard the speeches about how Ness and the Untouchables were going to take back the city, but it didn't mean anything. I was safe in my neighborhood and nothing beyond that really registered one way or the other.

The city itself however was undergoing a battle that would influence how it was viewed and run from that time forward. Even now when it has grown into one of the largest cities in the country and known for its sophistication, the history of corruption still taints how a good part of the population both home and abroad perceive it. There were times then, as now, that certain neighborhoods were unsafe to walk through and taking a wrong turn could get you killed. But for the most part the blazing Tommy guns so often associated with that era were did not make an appearance in the tree lined residential streets.

While I was oblivious to the political infighting and the machine gun battles that occasionally tore through the warehouses in the shipping districts there were ways in which the climate of the city touched me. Despite being a full year older than the previous summer and having reached the milestone of double digits I wasn't allowed to go to the newspaper vendor who set up on the corner of the nearest major street on my own. The radio that had been a part of our after dinner routine for as long as I could remember was silent until after I was upstairs tucked safely into bed.

I saw less and less of my father as the summer went on. Often times he wasn't home when I went to sleep and was already up and gone by the time I crawled out of my bed, hair askew, and made my way to the kitchen for breakfast. In retrospect I can see the bags under my mother's eyes and the worried way she would glance out of the window all the time, but youth is blind and ten year old boys more so. My attention was on which stickball team I would be chosen for and if Joey Brown's father was really going to take us to the lake like he promised. I missed having my father around, but accepted his explanation that he was busy with work.

June moved into July and the annual celebration of Independence Day arrived on schedule. Flags were raised from most of the homes and businesses, hanging limply in the mostly still air. Instead of our normal tradition of a trip to the lake for a picnic and fireworks we spent the day at home as did most of the people on our block. As a sort of compromise we ate our dinner on the stoop sharing around with the people in the homes nearest to us as they did in return. As dusk was turning to full dark my father appeared on the sidewalk and announced that he was spending the evening with his family so the criminals would just have to wait for another day to be arrested. More than anything about that night I remember seeing my parents in sharp relief against the colors from the fireworks that lit up the sky as they sat close together smiling at the simple pleasure of being with each other.

The first week of August was hot and humid and even us boys spent a good amount of our time in search of a patch of shade or a hint of movement that would stir the heavy air some. Still, it was better outside than in, even with the windows open and the fans running. Late afternoon would bring in a breeze off the water that would help to cool things down a little and make the heat of the day more bearable. After dinner the adults in the neighborhood would migrate out onto the stoops to gossip and enjoy the somewhat more comfortable air that sundown brought with it. For me and the rest of the kids the advent of dog days meant that soon school would be back in session bringing with it the need to wear good clothes and do homework instead of playing or listening to the radio in the evenings.

Wednesday morning I was pulled from my dreams of hitting a home run in stickball to the low and urgent sounds of my parents talking in the other room. Even though I couldn't hear the words clearly the tone was enough to tell me that they were arguing, something I rarely heard them do. Creeping out of bed I slunk across the room and pressed my ear to the wall hoping to catch a hint of what the disagreement was about, but I was met with only angry silence. Hurriedly I searched my memory for anything that I had done the day before that might have set either or both of them off. Unable to come up with anything beyond the usual scolding for tracking dirt into the house and talking with my mouth full I let the relief flood over me. Whatever they were discussing would not bring with it any kind of punishment.

At the sound of my parents' bedroom door opening and closing I scampered back to bed, quickly pulling the covers up and pretending to snore as if I was still sound asleep. My father's light step stilled outside my room and the familiar creak of hinges warned me that instead of passing by he was coming in. I forced my breathing to slow and deepen the way he had taught me to do when we were meditating. Knowing my father I suspected he would not be fooled so I was expecting a reprimand and a reminder that my parent's business was their own, but instead he stood over my bed for a moment before brushing my hair back and kissing my forehead. When I opened my eyes he smiled at me and knelt down so our faces were almost level. I looked at him, confused and somewhat frightened by this strange behavior. While I never doubted that my father loved me he was not a physically demonstrative man. In a low voice he told me that he loved us and if anything were to happen to him I was to take care of my mother since I would be the man of the house. Scared, I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on tightly.

He held me for a minute, both of us silently expressing all the things that fathers and sons didn't say to each other in those days, but felt nonetheless. I was close to tears when he finally pulled away, ruffling my hair and calling me his beloved son in Mandarin, a special treat usually reserved for moments when he was especially proud of something I had done. Standing, he turned and walked away without a backward look. I scrambled over to my window, watching as he hurried down the steps to meet my uncles. The sound of Uncle Duo's laughter followed by Uncle Heero's affectionate reminder to be quiet because some people were still sleeping drifted up to me. Uncle Quatre was the only one who looked up, smiling at me and waving, before returning to the quiet conversation they were all engaged in. They moved away after that, walking down the sidewalk in a way that seemed leisurely, but ate up the distance. It wasn't long before they disappeared around the corner and were gone from my sight.

I don't know how long I sat there watching the spot where I'd seen them last hoping that I could make them return, but the sun was warm on my face when my mother came into the room to wake me. She pretended to be surprised to find me awake and offered to make French toast, which at that time was my favorite food, one I would eat for every meal if she had been willing to cook it that often. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, but neither one of us mentioned it. Instead we both acted as if there was nothing unusual in the fact that I was wide awake hours earlier than normal or her willingness to heat up the house for breakfast, something she had refused to do every other morning that summer when I had asked.

Years later my father told me the story of how the Untouchables had gotten a tip from one of their agents in Capone's operation that he was expecting a big shipment of hooch to one of his warehouses down by the docks. They all knew it was a set up designed to take out as many of Chicago's finest, but they couldn't walk away either. This was their chance to take down Chicago's biggest crime boss as well as a good number of his cronies at the same time. Doing so would seriously cripple the bootleggers in the area as well as strike what would hopefully be the killing blow to Chicago's quickly growing organized crime syndicates. Every day that passed with Capone free strengthened his control over the city and reinforced to the group of eager up and coming gangsters that crime really did pay. The violence and corruption would only continue to escalate unless something was done to stem the tide.

It was a risk, one that everyone thought was worth taking, but they were still walking into the middle of a mass of heavily armed men who had repeatedly shown they had no qualms about killing the law whether it be Chicago’s finest, or federal agents. Of course everyone wanted Ness; he was at the top of the hit list and the man who took him down was guaranteed a place for the rest of his life. My father and my uncles were fortunate in that by never fighting for glory they were able to remain relatively unknown even with the number of cases they cleared. Staying out of the public eye was something that served all of them well for the span of their careers.

That morning all I knew was that my father was acting strangely and my mother, who never complained, had been crying. She tried to hide it behind a too bright smile and cheerful voice, but I could see it in her reddened eyes and the husky sound of her voice. That frightened me more than my father’s early morning visit and speech. My mother was one of the strongest people I have ever met. She walked through life with a quiet grace never pushing her values on others, but using every opportunity to speak her mind on the issues near and dear to her heart. She was the one who taught me to read and impressed upon me the values of compassion and understanding not just for others but for myself too.

Morning stretched out; the street that normally echoed with the sounds of children playing was eerily silent in the cloying heat. All up and down the block, windows that would normally be open to catch some of the breeze were shut tight, curtains drawn despite the warmth of the day. Worse of all was the sound of the telephone. The shrill bell would cut through the heavy air, bringing with it shivers of fearful anticipation. Every time it rang I was sent from the room and my mother would make sure to lower her voice, speaking so that all I could hear were scattered words that did nothing to ease my sense of impending doom. The one time I started to protest being told to leave the words died on my lips at the drawn, but determined look on my mother's face. Instead of reminding her that I was ten and almost a man I complied with her request, meekly leaving the room and shutting door behind me.

The house was stifling under the late morning sun and dust motes danced in the few sunbeams that made it through the curtains. In a rare show of permissiveness my mother opened up the formal sitting room, which was always the coolest place during the summer, and let me sit on the floor to read. The room had a closed up smell and being allowed to breach the inner sanctum of adulthood added to the sense of wrongness I couldn't shake. It wasn't long before I closed my book and went in search of my mother, too on edge to concentrate and nervous from the tension that permeated every inch of what was normally a very comfortable home.

I found her in the kitchen sipping coffee, something she did only when she was worried. When I dropped into the chair beside hers she smiled, a little watery and wobbly, but genuine still. We sat in silence for a few minutes before she started to speak, her resolve to be strong and protect me breaking under the strain of watching the slow minutes tick away. Hearing her explain about the need for the raid and the dangers involved helped me to understand the realities of the job that my father and uncles did. Even now I can close my eyes and conjure up that moment and with it the knowledge that people I knew and loved could die. That they might already be dead and I just didn't know yet. It was a defining moment in my life, one that shaped the child I was and the man I became. My father and uncles who I already hero-worshiped took on superhero status pushing Zorro to second place and Elliot Ness completely out of the running.

The hours passed slowly and while I have hazy memories of cards and boards games that helped to pass the time I couldn't say which ones or who won. The activities themselves weren't important, only that they somewhat occupied our minds as the minutes stretched out like bubble gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Lunch was prepared and eaten in silence. I didn't even have the heart to complain that it was my father, not me, who liked mustard on his ham sandwich. Instead I ate it, thinking that by doing so it brought me closer to him in some strange way and if we were connected he had to still be alive. I loved my uncles and I certainly worried about them, but it was my father who was first in my thoughts that day.

I tried to imagine what it would be like if he never came home, but it was impossible to imagine the house without him in it. His often stern, yet gentle, presence filled each room just as the pictures of him in his uniform and with my mother the day they were married covered the walls. Tea cups both decorative and utilitarian, stood on the counter beside the stove and chopsticks lay beside forks in the silverware drawer. There was no place that remained untouched by him. The worst part was thinking of my mother trying to go on by herself. Even though she now had the right to vote, something she had fought to earn, she was a woman and that meant hard going in a world that was made for and run by men. I vowed then to take my promise to my father to heart and make sure that if anything happened to him that I would take care of her as well as I could.

The radio in the sitting room, which my mother had switched on after our talk, kept a running commentary of the doings at the Capone warehouse. The steadily increasing numbers of injured and killed police officers did nothing to help the mood in the house. Mother would jump to her feet and turn it off only to put it back on a few minutes later, unable to bear the news, but tortured more when left to her own imagination. Rumors of Ness' and Capone's death were confirmed and then denied only to be confirmed again. Not long after we'd finished eating it was announced that the shoot out was over followed by a speech from the leader of The Untouchables declaring victory over the forces of crime.

Uninjured officers were being accounted for and sent to start informing families of the dead and injured. The first one made his way to our neighborhood within the hour. Tired looking and blood splattered he made his way to the house next door while I watched from the living room window. He didn't even get a chance to open his mouth before being greeted with screams of 'no'. I watched him trudge down the street, his head bent in resignation, and wondered how many more people he had to tell that their father, brother or husband would not be coming home. I remember feeling bad for him and yet strangely joyful when he passed our house without a second glance.

Three more officers visited our street, bearing with them the burden of announcing injury and death. I've been fortunate in my life to have never had to spend time in a war zone, but when I think about it must be like my mind always goes back to that August day. The stench of death lay over the city, suffocating it in the aftermath. Mother tried calling the hospitals and the precinct that my father and uncles worked out of but nobody knew anything. Too many conflicting reports coupled with men that had not been identified created a scene of confusion that made making accurate counts of the dead and dying almost impossible.

I was in my room, lying on my bed praying, making bargains with God if only my father and uncles would have survived, when I heard the door opening followed by the sound of my mother sobbing. I flew down the stairs, determined to be strong and not cry. Running into the front room I stopped short noticing that not one, but five men filled the space. It took a moment for my brain to switch gears and I could allow myself to see that my father and uncles stood there. Each one was covered with blood, some theirs, some belonging to other people. They all appeared grim and exhausted, but with a sense of triumph that told me Ness had not overstated things when he claimed victory.

Uncle Heero's arm was in a sling and Uncle Trowa was leaning heavily on Uncle Quatre, but they looked wonderful to me. Better than I had ever seen them. My father smiled and me and took one of his arms from around my mother's waist, beckoning to come close. He swept me up, holding me in place with one arm and my mother with the other, while whispering words of assurance in English and Mandarin. We were immediately surrounded by a crush of bodies, tears and laughter mingling as they often do. I've never felt so safe and loved as I did in that moment.

Looking back as a grown man who is at the end of his life, those memories carry with them a bittersweet tinge as I hold that day close as simultaneously one of the worst and best days of my life. It was the day that I truly understood that under his stern exterior my father loved my mother and I deeply. I also took the first steps on a path that would lead to understanding that there are things in life that worth fighting and dying for. Through the number of funerals we attended over the next few weeks I learned how lucky we had been, which made my family that much more precious to me. In time everything settled back into routine as it does, but life for me had changed in ways that would make an indelible mark on my soul.

In time I came to realize my father's dream and became the first Chinese-American lawyer to practice in Chicago. I married, had children and passed on to them the stories of their grandparents and adopted uncles. Through all this the world has grown more accepting of people who fall outside the cultural norms. I walked alongside strangers in Chicago's first pride parade in memory of my uncles and made sure that my grandchildren and great grandchildren were taught my father's native Mandarin. I like to think that some day, no doubt after I am dead and gone, prejudice will be a word used only in historical context.


End file.
